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promise. Tomorrow’s the first day of Christmas vacation, so I won’t have to worry about school. We’ll be together, and we’ll… work this all out.” He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, hold her tight. But even in the cold, he could smell the odor––like meat that had been left out of the refrigerator and had gone bad. He could not bring himself to do it. Instead, he went out and got a folded-up old afghan from the couch and wrapped it around her over the sheet to keep her warm.
    He left the pool-house, walked past the pool, and unlocked the back door of the house. As he passed the kitchen on his way down the hall, Dad said, “Kirk. Where have you been?”
     
     
    3.
     
    Kirk jumped at the sound of Dad’s voice. The kitchen was dark. Dad sat at the small oval table with a bottle of whisky and a half-full glass in front of him. He smiled wearily with his mouth, but not with his eyes.
    “Nowhere,” Kirk said.
    “You were nowhere?” Dad spoke just above a whisper and kept smiling in the dark. “Well, you had to be somewhere.”
    Kirk’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I was just riding around with Randy and Liz. We didn’t go anywhere, just drove around. Just talked. You know.”
    “Sit down, Kirky.” Dad used to call him “Kirky” when Kirk was little, and sometimes it still slipped out.
    Dad was Donald Mundy, but everyone called him Don. His old friends called him Donny. He was tall and slim, completely bald on top, with graying brown hair that grew around the back of his head from ear to ear. He ran a small advertising agency with his brother, Kirk’s uncle Matt. Most of the time, Dad was almost embarrassingly upbeat and cheerful. Everyone liked him. He was active in community organizations, went to church with Mom every Sunday. As far as Kirk was concerned, Dad was a likeable geek. He had never known Dad to raise his voice in anger or say a bad word about anyone––he was able to find something good in everyone he met. Mom, on the other hand, was a little high-strung, almost as nervous and hyper as Bud and Lou, her two ferrets, which had the run of the house. Dad was the level head in the family. But there were times when he couldn’t sleep well. This was not the first time Kirk had found him in the kitchen late at night sipping whisky. The first time had been when Kirk was eight years old. It happened maybe once or twice a year.
    Dad wasn’t a big drinker––he got cheerfully tipsy on Christmas and New Year’s, but otherwise his drinking was limited to a couple beers when they barbecued in the back yard on summer weekends. The rest of the time, he drank Snapple. But on those late nights when he could not fall asleep––it went on for days, once as long as two weeks––he took the bottle out of the cupboard over the refrigerator. During those periods, Kirk noticed there was something different about Dad’s eyes. They did not smile when his mouth smiled. There was a sadness to them, a darkness. By the time he was twelve, Kirk could tell when Dad wasn’t sleeping simply by the detached look in his eyes when he smiled.
    Kirk had wondered what it was that kept Dad from sleeping, but had never asked. He went to the table, pulled out a chair, and seated himself.
    “I’ve told you in the past,” Dad said, “that you can always talk to me about anything, anytime you’ve got a problem, or even when you don’t. We’ve had some good talks, I think. I remember what it was like to be your age, and I’ve got no illusions about how you see me. I’m your goofy dad, maybe a little embarrassing sometimes in front of your friends. But I love you very much. I want the best for you, the best of everything. And I want you to know, Kirk, how deeply, deeply pained I am by what’s happened. Natalie was a wonderful girl. I know how much she meant to you.”
    Kirk’s lips felt numb. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
    “I want to make sure you’re not blaming yourself for